


Coffee Fumes and Memory Scraps

by Geektastic_Hedgehog



Series: Coffee Shop Bond [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Amnesia, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okay everything I write has some angst in it but this isn't ANGST angst it's just angst, not an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geektastic_Hedgehog/pseuds/Geektastic_Hedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has amnesia, Q has attachment, coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Fumes and Memory Scraps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnotherNewWorld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherNewWorld/gifts).



> For the purposes of this fic, Q has an actual name. It’s not actually his name, just something he chose because of reasons, it’ll be explained. It means “consul” (apparently) and I thought this appropriate. I am planning on a “sequel” (not continuing the plot, just this from Q’s perspective. This should shed some light on things not explained here, but it’s not needed to understand those things to understand this). Well, the sequel may end at a slightly different place so maybe a tad of continuation.

James remembered waking up in a hospital bed. An older, lion-like gentleman told him he had received a head wound in service to his country. As James he had no next of kin, the government would set him up with a job, a flat, and an attendant, named Eva, who would pop in and check on him. He told James this because James remembered the hospital bed, and nothing else.

The man set a hand on James’ shoulder. It felt alien, and did nothing to reconnect James with an unfamiliar world. A light squeeze, a brief “get well,” and the man was gone.

James was left floundering, completely alone.

* * *

Standing in the cramped hospital bathroom, he took in the sight of his own body. A latticework of scars, old and new, littered his pale skin with blemishes. Calloused fingers, weathered skin, eyes like ice. _Must have been some military service_ , James thought.

Frown lines indicated an unhappy life, further evidenced by the lack of laugh lines. James wondered if he had ever smiled. He didn’t think he wanted to meet the man he had been.

            He sighed, pulled his shirt over his head, picked up the small duffel of belongings Eva had seen fit to give him, and left the room.

* * *

For her part, Eva gave him his space. James decided he didn’t mind much. Although he detested his lack of companions, he detested the cold air that surrounded Eva and her boss even more.  
            So James lived. Or survived, at the very least. The flat was comfortable, the job tolerable, and the company terrible. They (James was too weary to care who they were) had set him up in a department store. In the lingerie department.  
            He was reasonably sure that had been some type of prank.  
            The only part of his day he earnestly enjoyed was his tea break, which he would spend in the coffee shop next to his work. James didn’t care for the coffee as much as he did for the clerk.  
            The first time he had wandered in, the barista had sent him the most withering glare James had encountered (not that he’d encountered much). Since James had only entered for want of something better to do, he affected an air of indifference and strode to the register with confidence.  
            Which may have worked better if he had  the faintest idea how to order.  
            “Er, I’ll have the...” his eyes flicked frantically over the menu, eventually coming down to meet the barista’s now amused gaze.  
            Pushing thin glasses up a slender nose, the clerk took pity on him, “I’ll just give you the last customer’s order.”  
            Five minutes later, James relaxed into a chair and observed the other man.  
            He was much younger than James. Slender and lanky, he was certainly attractive. His dark hair was disorderly yet clean, not long enough to obscure the perfect mix of strong and delicate features of his face. James paid special attention to the man’s body as he stretched it out to reach for something above the cupboard.  
            Belatedly, James realized that he was interested in men. He catalogued the information in a near-empty mental box of his own traits.  
            Turning away, he took a drink of his coffee and gagged. A clear chuckle sounded from across the room, and for the first time in memory, James smiled.

* * *

A hefty pension supported his coffee habit (he only attended work to “build his character,” whatever the bloody hell that meant), and he made sure to take his coffee during the clerk’s shift. James would saunter in, and the clerk (Quinnell, according to his nametag. James didn’t know if it was a surname or not, and the man only smirked when he asked), would choose a new drink for James. All of the drinks were over-sugared, uselessly complex monstrosities. James freely admitted that he despised them, using his favorite expletives and occasionally winning a laugh from Quinnell. The barista would then sardonically inform him that _most_ people enjoyed this type of beverage.  
            The shop was usually empty. Maybe their coffee wasn’t that good. Although, James wasn’t going to change locations, the bad business gave him a chance to talk to the man that was fast becoming his only friend.  
            James wondered if he could count someone he knew almost nothing about as a friend. Any time James tried to pry more information out of him, Quinnell would just smile mysteriously and move away. He seemed more intent on gathering data on James, even though there was not much to give. The barista would wrest details from James about his day, any preferred tastes he had discovered, people he had met-- anything. Small tidbits were given sporadically in return, although nothing substantial enough to satiate James’ curiousity.  
            He didn’t know if Quinnell had another job, or a significant other, or family, or where he lived.  
            He _did_ know that the man loved technology, ever since he had leaped to fix James’ broken phone and somehow made it better than before. Quinnell’s laptop was ever-present, only lying forgotten when he prepared orders or was especially diverted by James’ conversation. James didn’t know what Quinnell did with it, although he wasn’t above admitting he liked watching the younger man’s able fingers tap out a staccato beat on the keys.  
            He knew that Quinnell listened to rubbish music, some ungodly mixture of Ed Sheeran and Louis Armstrong.  
            He knew that Quinnell couldn’t care less about fashion, would come into work in sweaters more fit for a grandmother if some modicum of decency weren’t required.  
            He knew that Quinnell loved tea, couldn’t live without it. Literally, the one day his kettle had broken, Quinnell had snapped at James, broken a mug, scalded his hand, and made weak coffee. James had enjoyed slipping behind the counter next to the clerk and preparing his Earl Grey, paying for it so management couldn’t complain.  
            He knew that Quinnell was hiding something. He saw it when the man turned away after a question too personal, a statement too revealing.

* * *

James had dreams. Nightmares, rather. He never completely remembered them, only flashes. Water roaring in his ears as he was crushed by its pressure, grasping for a woman who was always out of reach. Or a shot would ring out, blood would spill. A friend’s dying words, landing like lead. Or a familiar voice shouting cold orders in his ears, a shot drilling through his body. The same voice, fading away as he cradled another doomed friend.

He would wake up, choking, with a name on his lips. He never knew whose.

* * *

James loved the coffee shop. When he entered, the sugar-and-caffeine scent would hit his body like a wave, slowing his pace and calming his heartbeat. Sitting on his favoured chair-- a stiffer one with a straight back that most of the patrons seemed to avoid-- he could close his eyes and just _breathe._ Away from mindless chatter, he would tune his senses in to his surroundings. A light burble of the coffee machine provided a mellow backdrop. The rare passersby, chatting on the phone, would allow a quick glimpse into another’s life.

Behind the desk, he could hear Quinnell typing and mumbling. Occasionally, James might drop a dry comment to break Quinnell’s focus and smooth out the wrinkles developing along his forehead. Whatever the hell the man did in his spare time, it was too stressful.

Quiet days like these were just as soothing as the ones spent in constant conversation with Quinnell. Here, was where James finally felt at home.

* * *

James created back stories for Quinnell. He was an ex-con man, on the run from the authorities and biding his time for a final job, his _pièce de résistance_  
            He was a circus performer, trying to escape a brutish ringmaster and hiding his twelve toes in high-class shoes.  
            A Russian immigrant, masking his accent perfectly, who had come over to marry an Englishman. Only, finding the man thoroughly disagreeable, he had stolen the unfortunate groom’s jewels and gotten his dream job in the coffee shop.

A millionaire tired of dull board meetings and impossible expectations, who found his true passion in people and the scent of coffee beans.

            James would share the increasingly outlandish theories with the clerk, earning a precious smile, slight but brilliant. Although the weeks passed by faster now, James felt more time had been used. His flat didn’t seem so empty, the store less a living hell, and people less like mannequins.  
            For the first time since he had woken up, James felt the thrill of connection.

            He needed to get out more.

* * *

When he decided he needed to get out more, he had intended it to be with a co-worker, someone very specifically _not_ Quinnell. Well-rounded and all that.  
            James easily could have gotten one of the attractive women at his work to go with him; he had no illusions about that. Charm was something he was blessedly endowed with. Yet, as he approached a hopeful-looking blonde, he had stopped short. Groaning inwardly, he changed track, ignoring her disappointment, and punched out for the day.  
            Strolling up to the counter, James attempted to lean in suggestively. While he may have succeeded in this based on a casual observer’s account, Quinnell simply looked at him over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed. A moment passed as James leered, easily turning on the charm. Quinnell raised an eyebrow and turned back to his computer.  
            “Can I help you with something,” he asked, disinterested. James opened his mouth to deliver a suggestive comment--or three-- when Quinnell fixed him with a hit-on-me-and-die glare.  
            James changed tacks, standing straight and stepping back to an acceptable distance. “Want to go to dinner once your shift ends?” he asked simply.  
            Quinnell appraised James for a moment. “Okay,” he said softly. Increasing the volume of his voice, he continued, “But I get to choose the restaurant as well as the movie, thank you.” Finished with the conversation, he turned back to his beloved screen. James left the coffee shop, grinning like a ninny, not that he would ever admit it.

* * *

“No,” James said flatly, finality coating his denial.  
            “I did say I would choose,” Quinnell’s Cheshire smile was really not helping. James stared at the decrepit diner. He wouldn’t have noticed it unless Quinnell had pointed it out; having assumed it was an abandoned store. The light inside was almost impossible to spot, obscured as it was by small windows, curtains, and the intricate font of the name.  
            James still did not know much about his life, and he still knew he had better taste. Harrumphing, he turned to leave. Instead, he caught Quinnell’s challenging look. This was the only chance James would get. Grunting assent, he changed course for the third time that day and entered through the unpolished wood doorway.  
            Inside, the prospects for his night improved infinitely. The space was cramped without being uncomfortable, and a genuinely warm atmosphere filled the air. A hand rested lightly on his arm, and James glanced at a smug Quinnell.  
            “Not too shabby.”

* * *

“That wouldn’t work,” James spoke without thinking, quickly shushed by nearby patrons. He turned to Quinnell in a huff, “You can’t kill someone like that.”  
            “And how would you know?” Quinnell’s deceptively dark eyes turned to him.  
            “I--,” James’ brow wrinkled, “Military service.” He answered as if he was definite, even though they both knew he hadn’t a clue.  
            “Well, nothing the alleged hacker has done is impressive or even vaguely accurate,” Quinnell mused, “I chose the movie in an attempt to find a middle-ground to our polar tastes, but it appears I was unsuccessful.” Twining his fingers around James’ he stood up to leave, and James followed without complaint.  
            Once they had left, James finally turned to Quinnell. “So is Quinnell your last name,” he pulled the other man closer and nuzzled his neck, hoping the distraction would elicit an answer. He could feel Quinnell’s light chuckle in his throat.  
            “Well, most people call me Q.”  
            “That’s a letter, not a name,” James responded. Quinnell remained quiet, sadness tugging down the corners of his mouth. “Well if it’s that important to you,” James said lightly, sending Quinnell a confused look. Quinnell-- Q-- blinked at him, surprised.  
            “Oh, I don’t mind.”  
            Nonetheless, the rest of the night passed with a somewhat melancholic air, and James bid Q farewell at his apartment without trying anything more than a chaste kiss.

* * *

The next day, Q wasn’t in the coffee shop. In his place, a surly, pimpled teen stood.  
            “Where’s Q-- Quinnell?” James demanded.  
            “Sick. What do you want?” the kid responded, sounding bored. Without reply, James turned and left the shop.

* * *

Days later, an increasingly irritable James finally saw Q again. Any frustration he had with the man dissipated when he saw the state he was in.  
            His normally wrinkle-free attire was disheveled, along with his hair. Dark purple shadows dragged his now dull eyes down in exhaustion. His entire stance was defeated. The mark that most caught and held James’ attention was a bruise on Q’s high cheekbone.  
            James’ strode quickly to the counter. “What happened?” James realized he was growling. His hand reached out to rest against Q’s cheek. “Are you okay?”  he asked, his voice softening.  
            “Yes, I’m fine. Bit of trouble at work. All sorted,” Q’s response was clipped, and he brushed aside James’ concern. James continued to look at him with concern until the younger man smiled ever so slightly. James removed his hand, but his jaw set in a grim line. He wished he could do this one thing, just be able to keep Q from whatever asshole had hurt him. He couldn’t do that now. He promised to himself he would be able to later.

* * *

The nightmares became clearer, haunting him in his waking hours, only to dash away as he tried to grasp them. He knew that whatever life he had had before wasn’t pleasant. Of course, he’d known that the first time he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Now, though, names ran through his mind. Loss would stab him in the gut when he saw a porcelain dog in a window or a particular necklace under a glass counter. Co-workers were stunned when he easily dispatched a thief or responded in Russian to a customer.  
            James felt like he was on the edge of a cliff, falling slowly over the edge. As lost as he was now, he didn’t think he would be better of remembering.

* * *

One day-- a Tuesday, a Wednesday, James simply did not care-- he trudged into the coffee shop, more worn than usual due to an over-sensitive woman at his work and especially keen for a chat with Q. James realized with a start that the coffee shop wasn’t empty. He’d walked in silently, a habit he had adopted God knows where, and stood observing the last of an argument.  
            Between Eva and Quinnell.  
            “He’s a _liability,_ Q, you know that. All we can do is keep him out of the way and hope he recovers. Risking your neck, your extremely valuable neck, I may add, is not helping the situation,” Eva snapped out. A pause. With a softer voice, she continued, “I know how you feel, I really do, but we have to let him live. Without--”  
            She stopped, whipping around to catch a glimpse of James as he left.  
            James didn’t bother hearing the rest. He could guess who they were speaking about. Now he knew what Quinnell had been hiding. Fan-fucking-tastic. Normally, James would have fought, walked in and smiled cheekily at Eva. But he was sick down to his bones, tired of a life that wasn’t his own. The only time he had felt connected in the slightest was when he was chatting with a random barista that he never truly knew. James didn’t dwell long on these despondent thoughts, instead building a hard core of dispassion. He could no longer stand the humdrum job and superficial relations. He’d been cautiously saving money, unsure as to why,  as if on reflex. There was enough to make it out of town, set up somewhere new, far away from the poisonous influence of whatever unknown characters he was caught up with.

* * *

Opening his door, James knew instantly he wasn’t alone. His hand dropped to his side, reaching for a gun that was not there.  
            “I would ask that you don’t shoot me,” Q’s cool tone echoed across the room. James flicked a light on.  
            “Do you make a habit of sneaking into people’s flats in the dark?” James replied easily, falling back on their history of witty banter rather than try and deal with pesky things like emotions.  
            “No, but considering you are so fond of it, I thought I would try it. Surprisingly dull.”  
            James catalogued the comment, although he remained silent. Eventually, Q sighed.  
            “I suppose you want an explanation? Not that you could leave-- MI6 gets a little tetchy about that.” James started, even though he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised. Shady service to one’s country? Scars? Cat-like reflexes and strange martial abilities? Not too much of a leap, there.  
            “Eve, you, and I used to work together. You, as per usual, got yourself injured and lost any vestiges of sense. Since you were one of our great assets, management didn’t want to set you loose, and nor did they want to...dispatch you. I wish I could say more, but I’ve already exceeded what I was _technically_ allowed to tell you,” Q got up to leave, only to find James blocking the door. Nothing after the MI6 tidbit had even remotely surprised him, having figured out most of it already.  
            “Eva’s a really poor cover name for Eve, you know,” James commented, leaning against the doorjamb. Q, although shocked at being stopped from leaving the flat, was pleased that James had forgiven him.  
            “ _I_ didn’t choose it. Take that up with her. Keep in mind, she did shoot you once.” James flinched, hand reaching to a particularly nasty scar on his chest. “You remember?” Q’s voice was soft, light with hope.  
            “Not everything,” James said, shrugging. He watched Q’s shoulders droop with disappointment. “But I’ll get there.”  
            His hand snaked out to lightly touch Q's shoulder. Q looked up, meeting James' cerulean eyes. Then, moving as one, James shifted hand to rest on Q's cheek and Q stepped forward, moving his arms to wrap around James's strong body. Their lips met, and Q let out a soft sigh, tightening his grip on Bond. James leaned into the kiss, moving his hands down to Q's slim waist to maneuver the man into a more favorable position.  
            Q pulled back suddenly, bursting into laughter. James, honestly, was a bit affronted.  
            “What is it?” he demanded.  
            “I--” Q began to laugh again. Finally, an embarrassing moment for James, Q got control of himself. “You like your coffee black.” James thought of every atrocious “beverage” Q had rung up for him, always with a sly smile on his face. Harrumphing, James decided to silence any more of Q’s mirth with more enjoyable activities.

* * *

The memories came slowly, in no discernible order. James would be sitting with Q, enjoying one of the films that Q claimed was “good,” or sipping coffee (black, thank you very much) in the sunlight, when a memory would hit him, like a gunshot. Now, he knew for certain what a gunshot felt like. Bullet wounds, knife wounds, poison, car crashes, Bond-- as he now knew was his name-- was familiar with them all.  
            And heartbreak. Heartbreak especially.  
            Yet, once again, he knew what love felt like. He let it fill him up; consume him, just as the memories returned.           
            Every time a memory came crashing back, he could turn and see his Q, his Quartermaster,  his _present,_ next to him, ready to help. Bond realized he hadn’t always liked who he was, but he would always love Q.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I very probably misused tags, I apologize. This was a...thing? The most fitting tag I found was "angsty schmoop." As always, comments/questions/reviews are welcomed with open arms, fanfare, and partially nonsensical replies. If you have read my other Bond works, you will have realized I always gift them to the same person. It's because it's identifiably her fault.


End file.
